


Regret

by Aelia_D



Series: Lila/Farkas [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Angst, Drunk Sex, Dubious Consent, F/M, Non-consent, Sexual Content, Skyrim Kink Meme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-06
Updated: 2013-02-06
Packaged: 2017-11-28 09:57:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 15
Words: 7,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/673113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aelia_D/pseuds/Aelia_D
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vilkas may have seen her first, but by the time he realizes he loves the Dragonborn, it's too late; she's with Farkas. Dub-Con.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Now

**Author's Note:**

> Potential Trigger Warnings: Dub-Con; all is not happy and fluffy here. I just wanted to make that clear in the beginning.

He'd had too much to drink.

Vilkas had known it was a bad idea from the start. Had known that he was apt to do stupid things when he'd had that much. But he had wanted, had needed to lose himself in his cups. So he'd said "just one more" each time, until a line of one-mores stretched across the table.

And then he'd had another.

Perhaps it had been the last one, or the one before that which had taken him too far. Whichever cup it was, it had led to disaster.

It wasn't as though the night had started well. Nay, it had been a poor day, and a worse week. He had needed the escape that the mead offered. But it had not been the sweet bliss that he had wanted.

So when the barmaid had given him a saucy wink, and sauntered off with a swing in her hips and a meaningful glance over her shoulder, he had followed. Perhaps that had been his mistake, rather than that last drink.

Then again, perhaps his mistake had happened long before, when he hadn't spoken.

He wished he had.

Perhaps then he would not have been the one  _watching_  from across the fire. Instead he might have been the one making her throw her head back in laughter. He could have been the one she leaned on, the one she placed sloppy kisses upon as the night's revelry progressed. It should have been him.

After all, he had seen her first.

The woman was petite, her skin the color of coffee spiked with cream. Her hair was dark, twisted back in a no-nonsense bun. Her eyes a rich amber which spoke volumes with every glance. He had been struck immediately by her, had been fascinated by her from the start. It had set him on edge. Had set the wolf on edge. So he had kept his distance.

And she had charmed, and wrapped the other companions around her little finger. Had wrapped  _all of Skyrim_  around her finger as she played the hero and beat dragons into submission with her voice.

Oh that voice.

It was a rich, husky timbre for a woman. It sent shivers down his spine and made him want to make her scream. He wondered what she would sound like screaming his name as she climaxed. But he would never find out.

There was something about her. Something he couldn't quite put his finger on, but it made him wary.

And then she had smiled at him, and he had been as lost as the rest of them.

But by then, it had been too late.


	2. Then

She was a small woman, her frame petite beneath her armor. Vilkas had been unimpressed. Her skin was clear of scars, free from the bruises and wounds and countless other marks which spoke of the warrior's life. He distrusted people who had never felt the sting of a blade. They were too apt to ask others to feel that sting for them.

"I would like to join the Companions." She had smiled prettily at Kodlak. Hope had shone in her eyes as she'd gazed at the Harbinger.

"Would you now?" Kodlak hadn't turned her away instantly. Vilkas had ground his teeth, and bit back a remark. "Here, let me have a look at you." Kodlak had gazed into the stranger's face, his eyes searching. "Hm. Yes, perhaps. A certain strength of spirit."

"Master, you're not truly considering accepting her?" He hadn't been able to stop himself. She was just so...

"I am nobody's master, Vilkas." Kodlak's response had been sharp, but it had saved him from too much introspection. "And last I checked, we had some empty beds in Jorrvaskr for those with a fire burning in their hearts."

Vilkas had felt some shame, but it had not stopped him from glaring at the woman, who eyed him cautiously.

"Apologies." Kodlak had fixed him with that perceptive gaze, and it had made him hesitate for the barest moment before continuing. "But perhaps this isn't the time. I've never even heard of this outsider."

She hadn't looked at him. In fact, she had very carefully  _avoided_  looking at him. It made him feel like a brute.

"Sometimes the famous come to us. Sometimes men and women come to us to seek their fame. It makes no difference." Vilkas had gnashed his teeth. Kodlak-the-ever-reasonable was going to hear her out. Perhaps even let her join. "What matters is their heart."

"And their arm." Vilkas said. She  _couldn't_  be strong enough to be a Companion. The first stray breeze would send her tumbling. One solid piece of armor would have her falling over. Kodlak had to see the mistake he was making.

"Of course. How are you in a battle, girl?" Kodlak had asked her.  _Asked_  her as if she would be honest about her skills.

"I can handle myself." she'd said, and Vilkas hadn't been able to stop the derisive snort which had escaped.

"That may be so. This is Vilkas. He will test your arm." Vilkas had froze, like a deer who has scented the hunter. His gaze had darted between Kodlak and the woman. "Vilkas, take her out to the yard and see what she can do."

"Aye." He'd said. The Harbinger might not be the leader of the Companions, but when Kodlak wanted something, he had good reason. Vilkas would need more than a bad feeling about the girl to explain a refusal.

Her hand had hovered over her sword. He caught her eye and shook his head.

"Not here. Out in the yard. Come on."

He led her to the yard. She followed so quietly that he could hardly hear her footsteps. More than once he fought the urge to glance back and see if she was still behind him. When they were outside, in the courtyard, he faced her.

She was so small. So beautiful. She carried a sword, but she couldn't possibly know how to use it.

"The old man said to have a look at you, so let's do this." She'd frowned at him, clearly unsure what he wanted. "Just have a few swings at me so I can see your form. Don't worry. I can take it."

She had.

She'd drawn her sword and attacked with such speed and viciousness that she'd actually landed a blow. He'd grunted, and focused more carefully on blocking her next blows.

"Not bad. Next time won't be so easy." He'd offered a grudging admission. "You might just make it. But for now, you're still a whelp to us, new blood. So you do what we tell you.

"Here's my sword. Go take it up to Eorlund to have it sharpened. And be careful, it's probably worth more than you are."

There was a spark of something in her eyes. A flash of rebellion. The woman had even gotten as far as opening her mouth, but had apparently thought better of it. She'd left, and he'd tried hard not to watch her go.


	3. Now

He drunkenly stumbled on the stairs, cursing as he crashed against the wall. But there was no one to see him, so he straightened and continued his flight.

He needed to get away.

Away from  _her_.

Away from Farkas.

He wanted to be happy for his brother. Wanted to love her like a sister. Like a good man could. But he was not a good man.

He coveted her. Desired her the way one should not desire their brother's woman. He had not known. Gods help him he had not known.


	4. Then

The woman was incredible with a sword. She was lithe and graceful. It was an extension of her as she moved. And she was so  _quick_. He watched as she danced around a training dummy. Watched as she rained a dozen blows upon it before a man would even have time to lift his sword in response.

He could hear her breathing become labored. Could smell her sweat. A dark part of his brain imagined other causes for her exertion. He imagined running his hands along her skin. Imagined seizing her lips with his own.

"Vilkas?" She stood before him, her tunic damp with sweat and clinging to her slight curves.

"Yes?" He'd forced his gaze upward, met her eyes. She'd beamed at him, and he'd had to suppress the urge to beam back at her.

He wondered if she did it deliberately, or if that simple manipulation came to her naturally.

"Can I join you?" She gestured to the seat beside him. He looked at it, and her, then nodded his reluctant assent. He hadn't known it could happen, but her smile grew.

Silence stretched between them. He wondered if it would grow awkward, and make her leave. Was that what he really wanted?

"What does it mean to be a Companion?" Her voice had broken the silence. She'd sounded earnest, like she really cared about his response. So he'd answered.

"Depends on who you ask. You'll hear some of the brighter faces around her speak of honor and glory." That was usually enough for the new-bloods, the whelps who hadn't yet earned their rank. They wanted an idealized image of the Companions, which was fine with him. It had become his standard answer. The one he gave everyone, because it cast them in the best possible light without requiring much thought on his part.

"But what does it mean to you?"

Her question was astute, and gave him pause. Should he claim to ascribe to honor? To glory? Or should he tell her the hard truth? That he was stuck. That the Companions meant family when he'd had none but Farkas. That the Companions were a way of life, a way of surviving, and that he had never known anything else.

"I've got nothing against it, but for me, the promise of coin is what feeds my blade." It wasn't entirely untrue.

"Oh." She seemed to be turning the words over in her mind. Contemplating. He could see the wheels turning in her head, like some huge Dwemer gears. He wondered what she had expected him to say, what she thought of him. Did she think him cold and uncaring? Would it matter if she did? "Is it just the coin?"

"No." The word seemed to escape. He didn't want to prolong this conversation. But he did. He shouldn't, but he was. "Wherever someone in Skyrim doesn't feel up to defending their own honor, we'll take up their burden."

"Good. Everyone needs help, sometimes."

She'd left him then, with those words. Left him to contemplate their meaning. Her intent. Her. To contemplate  _her_.


	5. Now

Better men than him might have fled from that situation, but it didn't stop Vilkas from feeling like a coward. He had fled like a pup with his tail between his legs.

But that was better than the alternative.

Farkas had gazed up at her with pure adoration in his eyes, and it had turned Vilkas' stomach. He wanted his brother to be happy, wanted Farkas to find love and have a family besides the Companions. But he couldn't face that happiness. Not now. Not with this woman. Not with  _her_.

So he had snuck away.

The revelers sang and danced and drank within Jorrvaskr. They made merry and celebrated another job well done. Another year survived. They celebrated, lost in their mead and merriment. He could see dark shapes moving against the glass.

But tonight, he could not be part of that.

He sighed into the darkness, and watched the vapors from his breath drift away. If only it were that easy to let her go.

But then, she had never really been his to begin with.

 


	6. Then

He waited upon the steps of Jorrvaskr for her return. They should have been back already. Something must have gone wrong. Perhaps she had betrayed Farkas. He  _knew_  he should have gone instead of ice-for-brains. He paced, but it didn't burn off any of his energy. It made him feel caged, trapped here on the stairs.

Then he saw her in the distance. He froze. She was  _home._

Belatedly, he remembered Farkas. He searched, and spotted his brother walking beside her. They were _back._

He watched their approach, and envied the easy banter between them. Farkas was  _his_  brother. But they were smiling and laughing and talking, and they didn't notice Vilkas until they were nearly upon him.

"We've been awaiting your return." The words came out with a sort of grave formality which he had not intended.

She paused, gazing up at him with something in her face that he couldn't quite interpret. Vilkas didn't know what to make of it, but before he could begin to comprehend, the look was gone. Replaced by one of her contagious smiles.

"Why were you waiting for me?"

He shook his head. He couldn't tell her here. "Come, follow me."

He led her around Jorrvaskr, to where the others waited. It was time to make her a full Companion. Not a new blood, a whelp. But a Companion. She would be part of his family. He and Farkas took their places, completing the semi-circle. She quickly understood what was expected of her, and stepped into the open area before them all.

Kodlak began speaking, but Vilkas wasn't listening. He was wondering about what he had seen in her face. But he couldn't put a name to it, and he was lost in his thoughts.

Then came the time to speak for her, but Farkas spoke first.

"I stand witness to the courage of the soul before us." Farkas smiled at Lila, and she smiled back. Something had passed between them, and it made Vilkas' heart stop.

The ritual had continued, but Vilkas had been too distracted to focus.  _Farkas_  had sponsored her. That shouldn't bother him. After all, Farkas had been the one to go with her.

But it did.


	7. Now

It was Aela who found him.

He sat at the table in the back, his head buried in his hands. He was nauseous, and it wasn't with drink. Like all true sons of Skyrim, he could hold his mead. What he could not handle was his feelings.

He wanted her. It wasn't just that he wanted to bury himself inside her, though that was a factor. He wanted to hold her in his arms, to have her smile at him with her gaze full of love. Wanted to fall asleep with her, to wake up beside her. He wanted a million moments of domesticity, but he didn't want them with just anyone. He wanted them with  _her_.

When Aela placed a hand upon his shoulder, he fought the urge to shrug her off.

"It's alright." She said.

He didn't know how to respond, so he didn't speak. She could not possibly understand the depth of his feelings, or she wouldn't think it was alright.

"You don't want to lose them."

He lifted his head, looked into her eyes, and, with the courage that only too much mead can cause, told her the truth.

"It's her. I don't want to lose  _her_." Aela blinked in surprise. His smile was bitter, and full of self-hatred when he continued. "Farkas will always be my brother, but I cannot love her like a sister. I want her for myself, but I love him too well to hurt him that way."

"She wasn't yours to lose." Was all Aela said. She stood, and walked away. Before she entered, she turned back and warned him. "You should come back in. Farkas will come looking for you soon."

He nodded. Aela was right. She had never been his to lose.


	8. Then

"I'm looking for work." She'd said.

He had wanted to laugh at her words, to tell her she wasn't ready, but one glance at her and his voice died in his throat. He bit back on his sarcastic response, and instead examined the woman before him.

She stood before him in elven armor, an ebony warhammer strapped to her back. Her skin had never been fair, but it had darkened from time spent in the sun. She had changed, and he had missed it.

"We have a bit of a sensitive matter this time."

She nodded solemnly. It was odd to see such a serious look upon her typically-mirthful face. It gave him pause to see a side of her which he had never experienced before.

"A wealthy family has... misplaced one of their heirlooms." That was putting it delicately, but Vilkas was known for his way with words. "Of course, it's a group of wizards they're pointing their fingers at. Who knows what they want it for, but we want it back."

"I'll get it back." Her voice was firm, strong. It left no doubt that she would do what she said, that she could accomplish anything she set her mind to. He searched her face for some sign of the girl she had been, but all he could see was the stubborn woman before him.

"Good, good." He spoke absentmindedly, trying to understand how the frivolous girl he'd first met had changed so much. She'd survived the week, the fortnight, the month, in fact it had been nearly half a year. He should have known long ago that she was stronger than he'd thought. "These aren't the most glorious jobs, but they pay well."

She'd nodded. He passed her a note with the details, and watched as she turned away. She was going to leave again, and once more he'd wonder if she would be back. But then she paused, looked back at him.

"Come with me?"

That was when he knew he was in trouble.


	9. Now

He re-entered the main hall of Jorrvaskr, but rather than having to immediately confront the happy couple, he found Farkas startlingly alone. It didn't bother Farkas, though. Judging by the words Vilkas could catch, and the way Farkas gestured, he was explaining about that one time with the bear. Despite himself, Vilkas smirked. He remembered that day well.

Still, Vilkas remained on the periphery, not quite feeling welcome, despite the fact that the revelers were his friends, his family. She was gone, probably off to bed. She was known for a lot of things. Holding her mead was not one of them.

A saucy barmaid sauntered up to him, a twitch in her hips and trouble in her gaze. She leaned in close, angling herself so he could simultaneously feel the heat of her body while still seeing her rather fetching décolletage.

"Show a girl a good time, handsome?" She asked, her voice a breathy whisper in his ear. He wanted to shake her off, to set her away from himself and leave, but a man has needs, and perhaps working off some of his frustration would help him deal with... them.

His gaze strayed to Farkas once more. The good brother. The charming brother. The muscle-bound idiot. Farkas effortlessly held the rapt attention of everyone in the hall with his story. He loved his brother, but that didn't mean he had to  _like_ him, and he didn't like him very much at all these days.

His jaw tightened, and he gave the barest hint of a nod. She smiled and leaned back, letting her hand drag down his chest in a mark of possessiveness. She gave him a lascivious once-over and strutted away, somehow managing to show off for him while subtly slipping down the stairs to the living quarters.

He waited a beat, then followed her. He didn't have to be subtle, just quick, before someone noticed he was back and tried to draw him into a conversation he did not want to participate in. Not that they would even look his direction with Farkas in the room.

And then he was downstairs. As the doors shut behind him, they cut out all the noise from upstairs. He was alone. Blissfully so. He took in the first easy breath of the evening, felt the effects of the mead fade ever so slightly, and relaxed.

The barmaid might not have been the one he truly wanted to bed, but she would do. Her body would sate the need as well as any other, and if he left the room dark, he could perhaps even pretend. They were almost of a size, after all. And though his mind would know it was not Her that he was touching, that it was not the woman he wanted with every part of his weathered old being, he could pretend.

Just like always.

He took a few unsteady steps in the direction of his room, before he faltered. The barmaid had been here before, had, in fact, been here many times to quite a few of the rooms. When he was sober, he knew her name, even spoke with her sometimes. But he was drunk, and what he needed from her was far from conversation.

Vilkas had been with the barmaid before, more than once. But it had been a while. He hadn't been with anyone else since he'd first realized what he felt for Her. He had tried, but had felt as though he was being unfaithful.

Aela's words came back to him. She wasn't his to lose. She wasn't his.  _She wasn't his_ and never would be. He needed to get her out of his head.

He leaned against the door to his room. Rested his head against the age-worn wood. He fought down the wave of nausea, and the urge to flee. He would go through with this, because it was the only way to get her out of his system.

The only way to move on.


	10. Then

They had been in the woods for a week. She swore they weren't lost, insisted she knew just where they were, and that they would be there "soon" but it had been three days of "soon" and he was losing all patience.

When he had asked her if "any of her fancy magic" could get them un-lost, she'd gone quiet. Then she had begun digging frantically through her satchel, dropping more items to the ground than he would have thought she could possibly begin to fit into it.

And then she stopped, a red leather book in her hands. She beamed at him, and then settled down to read. To  _read_ while they were lost in the woods. But she was quickly drawn into the tome, and Vilkas was loath to interrupt, so he settled down to watch her.

He admired the way she devoured the page, her eyes flying over the words, whatever they might be. One hand thoughtlessly reached upward, catching a stray lock of hair from the nape of her neck and twirling it around her fingers. Her lips pursed, her brow crinkled, and occasionally she would frown. He could not have taken his eyes off her for anything.

Minutes ticked by, but neither of them noticed. Then she glanced up. Her gaze caught his, and a flush darkened her cheeks, but she didn't look away. There was an intensity in her eyes that he had never seen before, something he could not put a name to.

He was the one to look away.

When he looked back, she was whispering something from the book, her right hand raised in a casting gesture. As she spoke, the book vanished, slowly fading from existence. When the book was gone, she raised her hand once more, and cast the spell. A blue trail of light led east from where they sat.

She whooped in triumph, and threw herself at him. Her arms twined around his neck, and she planted a sloppy kiss upon his mouth. He was paralyzed in surprise.

"We're not lost anymore!" she said, her grin lopsided as she gazed up into his face. He nodded, still incredibly stiff. She seemed to realize what she had done, and she backed away from him, mortification darkening her face.

He felt her pull away, felt his hands drop to his sides. He hadn't even been aware that he'd been holding her until she'd slipped from his grasp. She turned away from him, stooped and began hastily stuffing things back into her satchel. He reached out to her, he wanted to explain that it was just surprise.

But once more his hand fell to his side. What could he say? He was not the brother who was good with people. His vocabulary was immense, but that didn't mean he knew what she needed to hear. So instead, he turned away, hefted his own bag, and waited.

When she turned to face him once more, her features were blank, though he could see pain in her eyes. He wanted to soothe her, to brush it away and tell her that he wasn't used to such exuberance. That it was nothing against her, and that he hadn't minded. But the words would not come.

"I'm sorry. It won't happen again."


	11. Now

Vilkas steeled himself for the reality that he was about to use one woman to sate his needs for another. He tried not to hate himself, but a man had needs.

She was on him as soon as he opened the door, and it took him by surprise. Her hands fisted in his hair, pulling his face down to where she could reach. Her mouth was hungry, her lips demanding, her tongue invasive. He groaned in appreciation. She smiled against his lips, and began lavishing kisses upon his face, working her way down to his neck, where she gently nipped. He shuddered, and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her body against his. She was already nude, her skin warm against him.

He could not resist the low growl that emanated from his chest in response. He didn't want to resist cupping her ass and lifting her against him. He was already hard, straining against the fabric of his pants, and the feel of her warmth against him was amazing and agonizing. He needed to lose the fabric between them, to feel her skin against his. He wanted to bury himself in her core and make her scream.

She apparently had the same idea, because her hands were tugging at his shirt, drawing it out from his pants and up, over his head. He helped as much as he could without dropping her, and between the two of them, they got him bare chested. Her soft breasts pressed against him, and her hands ran down his chest, lightly teasing his nipples. His breathing quickened in anticipation as she ran her hands downward.

He felt strong thighs clench against his hips, and all he could thin about was how badly he needed to bury himself inside her. She arched back and rubbed herself against his length. He groaned, and claimed the pebbled tip of one breast in his mouth, teasing her with teeth, his tongue flicking the tender tip. Her moan was low and shaky, and went straight to his groin.

She worked one hand down between them, and unfastened his belt and pants. He sprung free with a gasp of relief which quickly turned into a low growl as she stroked it. She chuckled, and stroked again. He used one free hand to shove his pants down his hips and turned so she had her back against the door. He would take her here, standing, because had no patience for more. No tenderness for anything else. His need was too great.

It was dark, and the mead had his head swimming, so he could pretend it was the right woman. He needed to pretend. It would be easier for him if he didn't think about who he really rutted, that she wasn't just a substitute.

His mouth moved to her other breast, sucking hard and making her gasp as he shoved into her. She arched against him, and made small noises of pleasure with each thrust. It brought out his darker side, his wolfish side, and while he would usually fight it, today he let it go. He claimed her against the door, pulling back and slamming home with a viciousness that he couldn't contain, but she reveled in it, using what leverage she could to press herself back, to claim him with every stroke.

Her fingers raked down his arms, her nails scratching his pale skin. It earned another growl from him, and he slammed home with even more ferocity. Her breathing sped, her moans coming with greater frequency, getting deeper in pitch.

He grabbed her hips in an iron grip, surely leaving bruises, but she didn't seem to mind. She slid one hand between them, stroking herself in time with his thrusts, bringing herself closer and closer to the edge. He sped up, wanting to make her scream,  _needing_ to hear the expression of her ecstasy.

He felt her body begin to clench, and he bit down on her breast in response, surely leaving another mark. She writhed against him, tightened and clenched and drew a strangled groan out of him as she came.

"Farkas!" she screamed. He froze, but she was so lost in her orgasm that she didn't notice. His blood ran cold. It couldn't be. He ran one hand up her side, felt that scar beneath her ribs and he couldn't deny it.

He didn't have to pretend it was her, because it was.

"Lila," he groaned.


	12. Then

Things had been awkward, and they hadn't spoken for several hours when finally he broke the silence.

"I'm sorry." He wanted to apologize for the delay, wanted her to understand that it wasn't about her. That she was strong and beautiful, and she deserved so much better than a stubborn old battle-worn warrior. She deserved a man who could treasure her every day, who would be with her into their old age, who wasn't risking death every time he left their home.

"I don't particularly want to talk about that." She replied, her voice too casual, her words clipped with a tension that he could see in her shoulders. She wouldn't look at him, but that was alright. He wasn't sure he deserved it.

"Alright." He'd agreed. He wanted to press the issue. Wanted to let her know that it was his failing, not hers. That he was the one who could never be worthy. That despite his reputation as a brilliant speaker he had no idea what to say to her. It was perhaps that last point that made him hold his silence. How could he say that he did not know what to say? She would never believe him, and think that he was just saying it out of pity.

The silence stretched between them once more, quickly growing awkward. He wished he knew what she needed him to say.

This time, the silence was broken by the thunk of an arrow into the tree beside her head. They both responded quickly, spinning around and searching for their attackers. He saw a flash of movement to their right, and charged at it, his sword at the ready. He sliced at the man with all the fear and desperation he'd felt when he'd seen that arrow and realized it had been meant for her.

But there was no bow, and when he realized that, he searched for more. Four bandits descended upon him at once. He sliced and chopped and parried their feeble daggers, feeling his stamina run low. If he was this tired, he could only imagine how she was faring. He finished them quickly, and dashed back to her side. The corpses of three more men lay dead at her feet, but she was pale, and her hand clutched at her side, at the seam of her armor, the only weak point. The only place they could have hurt her.

She stumbled toward him, and collapsed into his arms.

"No." He gasped. "No, you can't die on me." He tore at her armor, his fingers uncharacteristically clumsy. It didn't take long for him to uncover her bare flesh. What he saw did not make him optimistic. More blood spilled with every beat of her heart, staining them both red. He had to stop this, had to save her.

He fumbled in his bag, found a healing potion, pressed it to her unresponsive lips and tried to make her drink. He got some down her throat, but not enough. It couldn't be enough. He pressed her cold fingers against her wound, placed his hand on top, putting pressure on the wound. It was a solid stab-wound on the tender flesh below her ribs, but if they were lucky, it hadn't hit anything vital.

He used his other hand to pour more healing potion down her throat, hoping that she would swallow instead of choke. He needed her to live, he couldn't lose her. He couldn't bury her. Life would not be worth living without her.

He knew the potion was working when the bleeding began to slow. But it wasn't enough to heal her entirely. He had wanted this to be easy, but of course it wouldn't be. The potion would keep her alive, but if he couldn't stop the bleeding, it wouldn't be able to do so for long. Vilkas fumbled in his pack, trying not to jostle her, and came up with a small sewing kit. He was going to have to close the wound himself.

It would scar. He hoped she would live to hold it against him.


	13. Now

A better man would have left. A stronger man would have set her down and walked away right then. He had no doubt that were the roles reversed, Farkas would have set her down, would have apologized and left. But he was not Farkas, and he was not that good, not that strong. He had wanted her for too long. He needed her too badly. He loved his brother, but he loved Lila more.

But it was different now that he knew it was her. He would only have one chance, he could not pretend that this opportunity would ever come again. He could lie to himself about a lot of things, but not this.

His hands immediately gentled, caressing her where he had once grabbed possessively. He could fuck a barmaid, but he would make love to Lila. She didn't question it, just languidly rubbed herself against him, her body still so warm and soft. He carefully crossed the room and lay his precious bundle upon the bed. He imagined her smile as she gazed up at him, or Farkas, really.

Vilkas covered her body with his own, pressed a kiss to her temple, her cheek, her lips. He was tempted to linger, but continued moving, his lips caressing her throat, where he could feel her pulse fluttering, soft and thready. His next kiss fell upon her collarbone, then the rise at the top of her breast. He skipped her nipples entirely, instead kissing the curve beneath her breast, then her belly. Her breath was coming in soft pants, and her hands were fisting in the blanket as she let him love her the way he wanted. When he reached the juncture of her thighs, he placed one tender kiss, then moved on to her thigh, the back of her knee, her calf, her ankle.

"Please," her voice was a breathy whisper as he began his journey up her body once more, his lips and fingers stroking her skin. Memorizing it. Because he only had this once. He chuckled, laved the back of her knee with his tongue and made her breath catch in her throat. And then he was once more at that sweet spot between her thighs.

He delved into her damp folds with a finger, and her breathing stopped. He moved his finger, and her breathing restarted with a gasp as she arched her back. She was so incredibly responsive. He was aching to be inside her once more, but he wanted to draw this out as long as he could. He needed to take his time with her.

So he teased.

He caressed her gently, carefully, his fingers brushing that sensitive nub, circling and stroking to a symphony of gasps and moans. Every time she got close to climax, he would slow, until she was nearly weeping in need.

He moved to cover her, and was rewarded by her wrapping her arms around his neck and placing a soft kiss upon his lips. She wrapped her legs around him, and he thrust forward, filling her once more. He wanted to draw this out forever, but knew that they were both running out of patience, so he began moving quickly. She wrapped her arms around him and pressed her face to his shoulder. He felt her teeth scrape against his skin, the action stirring the frenzied need once more.

He moved faster, harder. She responded with mewling gasps as she rose to meet him. He shifted their positions, pulling her legs up over his shoulders so he could get deeper. She obliged, and rewarded him with more moans. It was ecstasy. Everything he had fantasized about and more.

She orgasmed first, and he wasn't far behind.

He lowered himself gently, and she pulled him against her, cradling his head upon her chest. Her hands stroked his hair in an unexpected gesture of tenderness.

He enjoyed it for a few moments, then rolled off her. She snuggled against him, her cheek resting upon his shoulder. Soon her breathing steadied, the slow, steady breathing of sleep. He wished he could hold her all night, that he could keep her here and profess his feelings.

But it would not end well. She did not love him. She loved  _Farkas_  and though it broke his heart, he knew what he had to do.


	14. Then

When they had finally returned to Jorrvaskr, she had left him, and had gone out alone. He had asked her to take someone, but she had just fixed him with a silent stare and left. Every day of her absence had been agony.

He wondered if it was the injury, the scar, or something  _else_  which kept her away. He wondered if she had another man. Vilkas hoped he was as good to her as she deserved. She had become an amazing woman, the most famous in all of Skyrim, seemingly overnight.

Stories drifted back to him in the form of gossip. Stories of her strength, fortitude, and  _goodness_. She was a beacon of hope for a country on the brink of civil war, a light in the face of darkness and Dragons.

She was the  _Dovahkiin_ , and she had risen to meet her destiny.

Without him.

When she staggered into Jorrvaskr, bloody and leaning on a staff, he'd been paralyzed. He couldn't believe it was her. But it was. He started to rise, wanted to scoop her up in his arms and tell her everything was alright, that she would be OK. He would heal her once more.

And then Aela had made a comment. He couldn't remember it, precisely, but it had incensed her. She had launched herself at Aela, and despite her weakened state, she had landed several good blows before Farkas had stepped in and pulled her off her Shield-Sister.

"Lila?" He'd asked. She had opened her mouth to reply, but had fainted in his arms. Farkas had looked stunned, but he had scooped her up exactly the way Vilkas wanted to. Had cradled her against him carefully and begun to walk away with her.

Vilkas wanted to follow. He wanted to rip her from his brother's arms. But he remembered the  _look_  she had given him. Remembered the anger and hurt in her gaze, and the way she had avoided him.

She did not want him.

So he sat back down, and tried to let her go.


	15. Now

Vilkas placed a gentle kiss upon her forehead, and slid out of the bed. She made a small noise, and scooted into the spot his body had warmed. He wanted to stay. He wanted to stay with her forever, but he knew it was not to be. She might have felt something for him once, but he had not spoken.

He- the brother known for his words-  _had not spoken_ , and had forever lost his chance to the woman he loved.

She was lost in the sleep of the exhausted- and the very drunk- so it was no challenge to wrap her in an over-sized shirt and carry her across the hall. She made a small noise and clung to him, her cheek rubbing against his chest in a gesture of undeserved trust and tenderness.

He was a monster, and he didn't deserve her.

When he put her into his brother's bed, she sighed softly and nestled into the pillows. He had not been able to resist lighting a candle, he had needed to see her once more. Her dark hair was mussed, fanned across the pillow. Her cheeks were flushed, her expression soft. He wished things had been different, that he could have fallen asleep with her every night, woken with her in his arms every morning.

But they had been doomed. First by his stupidity, then by his inaction. He knew she loved his brother, and that Farkas loved her back. He knew Farkas would be good to her, that he would make a good husband and would treasure her. It didn't make him hurt any less.

He did not know what she would think when she woke in Farkas' bed. He could not allow himself to dwell on thoughts of her attributing his worship of her body to his brother. He would not be able to bear it.

He could not face the reality of the morning to come. The knowledge that he had betrayed the two people he loved most in the world would eat him alive. Seeing their happiness would remind him of his own misery. Of his deception. He needed to get away.

He blew out the candle and fled.


End file.
